


The Other One

by claro



Series: The Other One [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, I'm not sorry, Incest, M/M, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-23 23:11:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7483716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claro/pseuds/claro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eight years, one marriage proposal and a lot of paperwork which provides an unwelcome surprise and two very broken hearts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Remember to check me out over at [ClaireWritesWords](www.clairewriteswords.wordpress.com) where I blog about writing, acting, art and all things fandom.

Eight years had come down to this, sitting cross legged on the floor searching through every piece of paper Greg owned to find the one elusive document he really needed. He groaned when he heard the front door open. Mycroft would kill him when he realised that Greg had left everything to the last minute. Again.

Greg didn't look up when he felt Mycroft stop in the door way.

'It's not as bad as it seems. I'll find it before tomorrow.'

Mycroft sighed, 'Gregory!'

He crouched beside his fiance and cast his gaze over the scattered bank statements and tax returns.

'What are you looking for?'

'Decree absolute,' he risked a glance at Mycroft and flashed him a small smile, 'Don't think they'll let me marry you without it.'

Mycroft said nothing, just started to sort through some of the paperwork.

'At least I found my adoption certificate. I hadn't seen it in years. Was worried I might have chucked it out and I'd have to order a copy.'

'If you had then we could've just waited.'

'I don't wanna wait.'

When he looked up again Mycroft's attention was focused on the pile in front of him, but there was a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

They worked in silence for a while, each focused on their own tasks, although Mycroft seemed to be making better headway than Greg. After twenty minutes or so Mycroft spoke, his voice deliberately casual, giving away how nervous and unsure he was about the topic.

'Have you...given any more thought regarding names?'

Greg shrugged. It was a conversation they'd had several times over the last few months, but neither of them were any closer to reaching an agreement. Deep down, though, Greg suspected it would be him who conceded on this point. Mycroft was very proud of the Holmes name, regardless of how much his brother had managed to tarnish it.

'Not really,' Greg admitted, 'I mean, I suppose we could always hyphenate it....' Mycroft's look of disgust matched Greg's own.

'One does have limits, Gregory.'

'You could be a Lestrade?'

'Mycroft Lestrade....' Mycroft tried it out but he didn't look too impressed by it.

'Could be worse, you could be Sherrinford Portendorfer.'

'What?'

Greg laughed at the shocked look on Mycroft's face, 'Was my birth name. Thank God mum was having none of that though.' he shot Mycroft a wicked smile, ;'Just as well, can't imagine you moaning that out in bed,' he picked up another sheaf of papers and started to shuffle through them as he spoke, 'Hardly suprising she put me up for adoption, clearly hated me if they called me that. I mean, who names their kid that?'

'My mother,' Mycroft whispered.

Greg snorted, 'Come on, your name's not that bad.'

When Mycroft didn't reply Greg lifted his head again and was filled with sudden fear at the look on Mycroft's face. His eyes were wide and his skin pale and almost grey. He looked like he was about to be sick.

'Myc? You okay?'

Mycroft just shook his head, and then he stared at Greg for a long moment before he could speak again.

'Sherrinford....'

'Portendorfer, yeah.'

Mycroft swallowed, 'Your mother was Violet Marie Portendorfer.'

Greg felt a surge of annoyance, 'Mycroft!'

'No father listed.'

'I can't believe you!' Greg shouted, 'You promised. You fucking promised me that you wouldn't go digging about in my past.'

Mycroft just blinked, 'She was seventeen when she had you. Your father was married mathematics professor at Oxford and never knew about you.'

'I'm not even going to ask how you know that!' Greg got to his feet and paced the room, he had never been so angry at Mycroft as he was right then, 'Why did you do that? Why can you  _never_ just let things go? Do you have that little respect for me that you have to go looking at things I asked you to stay out of? Did it ever occur to you that I might not want to know these things?'

He ran a hand through his hair and looked down at Mycroft, who hadn't moved from his seat on the floor.

'Why did you have to do that?' he asked quietly.

'I didn't,' was Mycroft's pained response.

'Then how could you know all that stuff about my birth mother?'

'Because she's my mother too.'


	2. Chapter 2

'....what did you just say?'

Mycroft didn't lift his head when he spoke, unable to look at Greg as the full implications started to hit him.

'Violet Portendorfer is my mother. And Sherlock's too.'

'But you're mother's called Olivia.'

'Pet name my father gave her.'

'Mycroft, I don't think I really understand what you are saying here, so can you say it again, really slowly. Mycroft, look at me...please.'

Mycroft finally lifted his head, but it felt took heavy and the roar of blood in his ears made it hard to focus on Greg's words. But he spoke in his usual calm manner, hating the distress on Greg's face at each word.

'Mummy gave a baby up for adoption when she was a teenager. It was...it was just how things were then. She was...remarkably open about it and we always knew there was...another one. But she asked us to leave him be and not go searching for him. So...we didn't. Four years later she married my father, and a year after that I was born. And then eventually Sherlock.'

'And that baby was....'

'You.' Mycroft closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to look at the pain and confusion on Greg's face any more. He wanted desperately to reach out and hold him, to comfort him, but he couldn't do that. He could never do that again.

'You're my brother?' Greg's voice was just a breath.

Mycroft nodded.

'Did you know?'

'No. Not until this moment.'

'You never suspected?....how can you not know, Mycroft? You know  _everything!'_ Greg was pacing again, tugging as his hair as he spoke, 'We're supposed to be getting married next week! What am I supposed to tell my parents? Christ....everything.....God we could go to prison!'

'Gregory, please sit down. We can't talk-'

'Talk? What are we going to talk about?' tears were freely flowing now and Greg's voiced cracked with the effort of getting the words out, 'Talking isn't going to change the fact I've spent the last eight years fucking my  _brother!'_

There was a shocked silence following Greg's outburst, during which the realisation seemed to hit them both all over again. Unable to hold it any longer, Mycroft scrambled to his feet and ten seconds later he was on his knees in the bathroom heaving bile. Over the sounds of his own retching he heard the door close as Greg left, and he knew, deep down, that Greg wasn't ever coming back.


	3. Chapter 3

Time passed.

Mycroft cancelled the wedding, sending short notes of apology to the guests which raised much speculation, and refusing to comment on the reasons, despite his parents clear concern. He did not speak to Greg. He had no words for him.

Instead Mycroft withdrew back into himself, declining every invitation and refusing to see anyone unless completely unavoidable. He changed offices, unable to sit in a room where he and Greg had enjoyed several liaisons over the years. He eventually put his flat on the market for the same reasons and quickly, with terrifying efficiency, removed every trace of Greg Lestrade from his life.

He had been right that day. Greg never came back and they never spoke again.

#

Gregory Lestrade took six weeks leave from work. He spent it in a cheap hotel with cheap women and even cheaper whisky. When he reached twenty five years of service the following year, he took the early retirement offered to him, cashed in his pension and disappeared completely. He never spoke about Mycroft Holmes again. But he occupied every waking thought.

It had been so close to perfect. He had never loved anyone like he'd love Mycroft. He'd never  _wanted_ anyone as much as he wanted the other man.  _Needed_ him.

He tried not to think about Mycroft like that. Tried to forget the memories of the things they had done, the way that Mycroft looked at him. Even as his own body betrayed him, reacting to recollections of frantic sex on the floor of Mycroft's office, or long, slow lovemaking in their bed, or tender caresses in the shower, Greg tried to forget. It was wrong. He knew it was wrong. But the first time he took himself in hand to thoughts of Mycroft he couldn't stop himself. Later, after he came and after he cleaned himself up, he felt disgusted with himself. Physically ill at how perverted it was.

But he did it again the next night. And the next.

He lost weight and he couldn't sleep, he was at least slightly drunk at all times, and he finally understood why Sherlock relied on drugs to take the edge of the cold reality of life. It was good that he'd retired when he did because he'd have been a liability. He'd never hurt so much or hated himself more.

#

Five years passed. Then six. It had been almost seven years since he had even heard Mycroft's name. And then he got a call from John Watson to tell him that Sherlock's father had died.

'Funeral is on Wednesday. I didn't know if you wanted to come, I mean, I know you and Mycroft don't get along anymore, but I thought I should tell you anyway. Just in case.'

'I'll think about it.'

And he did. He was still thinking about it as he pulled into the church car park on Wednesday morning. He watched as friends and family made their way inside, and he debated with himself whether to join them or just to turn around and leave.

And then he saw Mycroft.

He was not the Mycroft Greg had known. This man was painfully thin, his one thick red hair was almost gone, and he looked like he hadn't smiled in a long time. Greg watched him for a long time as he listened to the condolences of the other mourners, but he noticed that not once did Mycroft open his own mouth to speak back. He just nodded politely, his expression unbearably sad.

Greg took a deep breath and climbed out of the car before he could talk himself out of it. As he walked across the gravel, Mycroft spotted him and for a long second they just stared at each other. And then Mycroft's shoulders dropped and he turned away from Greg, following everyone else inside.

He had intended to leave straight after the service, but he got caught talking to John, who was keen to fill him in on what they had all been up to lately until Sherlock appeared at his elbow.

'Lestrade.'

'Sherlock.'

There was no point in offering Sherlock sympathy, he would neither want nor understand it. Instead there was an awkward moment before John cleared his throat and announced that he was going to get another cup of tea, leaving Greg and Sherlock facing each other. Sherlock seemed uneasy, and kept glancing past Greg's shoulder. From the look on Sherlock's face Greg could guess who he was staring at, and there was something in the stance and the set of his jaw that Greg recognised. Guilt.

'You knew.'

Sherlock didn't say anything. He didn't have to. Greg sighed and turned to leave.

'See you, Sherlock.'

As he reached his car he realised someone was standing smoking by the trees. His heart started to beat faster. He would have recognised that stance anywhere. He paused for a second to collect himself before he walked up to the man.

'Mycroft.'

Mycroft started, surprised at the voice behind him. But he collected himself quickly and nodded a greeting.

'I'm sorry.'

'Thank you,' Mycroft said quietly, his voice rough, like he hadn't used it in a while.

There was a pause then as all the words from the last few years flew through Greg's mind as he frantically sought for the right thing to say. But in the end he couldn't manage it when Mycroft's hand rested lightly on his arm, stilling his thoughts completely.

It was the briefest of seconds and the lightest of touches, and then Mycroft was gone again, heading back inside, his head bowed low.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter - I honestly didn't really know what I was doing with this - it stemmed from an idea of what could I possibly put the boys through that was the very worst thing I could do to them. This was the result. Sorry it's short, it was only ever meant to be one short chapter, but, as usual, I sort of got carried away.

It took some time to mentally prepare himself, but the day came when Greg found himself in the lobby of Mycroft's Whitehall office. The girl at the reception desk gave him a blank look when he asked for Mycroft.

'Sorry sir, there's no one by that name here.'

Greg rolled his eyes and sighed.

'Look, I know how this works. So why don't you go ahead and call up and tell him Greg Lestrade is here.'

'I'm afraid I can't-'

'Detective Inspector,' high heels tapped on the smooth tiles and there was the waft of expensive perfume as Anthea indicated that he should follow her.

'I never thought I'd be glad to see you.'

Anthea narrowed her eyes, 'Likewise.'

They fell into silence as Anthea led him along an unfamiliar corridor to a different office he'd never been in before. She paused outside the door and considered him for a moment with her shrewd eyes, and Greg wondered if she knew. Possibly. But if she did then she'd never say. Whatever she was looking for in his expression she seemed to find and she stepped back with a nod, gesturing towards the door, and then she was gone again.

Greg walked straight in without knocking, and was rewarded by a startled look on Mycroft's face as he turned from the bookcase.

That look was quickly replaced by wariness and a fear that Greg hated seeing there. He let the door close behind him and stood very still, taking in Mycroft's appearance. The lines of stress, the tightness in his mouth, and the shadows under his eyes.

'You look like shit, Myc.'

Mycroft pressed his lips into a thin line.

'Although I daresay Sherlock's already told you that,' Greg looked around the office with curiosity.

'What do you want, Gregory?'

'You.'

Greg hadn't intended to be so blunt, but it was worth it to see Mycroft flounder.

'Same thing I always want. That I've wanted since I met you.'

'Gregory....'

Greg felt tears threaten to spill at the ache in Mycroft's voice, and the sudden, overwhelming urge to reach out and hold him.

'I can't do this anymore, Myc. It's....it's killing me.'

He closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to look at Mycroft.

'I can't...I...'

There was a gentle weight against his shoulder and he opened his eyes to find Mycroft standing in front of him, resting his forehead on Greg's shoulder.

'We can't,' Mycroft whispered.

'I don't care,' Greg breathed in the warm scent of Mycroft as he realised just how true his words were.

'You should care. It's...it's not right.'

'I don't. I did, but not now. Not ever again. I don't care, Myc. I just...I don't care.'

Mycroft had been standing with his arms at his sides, but now he reached one hand tentatively out to rest against Greg's hip. It was the gesture Greg needed and he pulled Mycroft close, wrapping his arms tightly around the other man as the politician buried his face in Greg's neck, tears flowing freely now as they clung to each other.

'It's alright,' Greg whispered against Mycroft's temple as Mycroft shook in his arms, 'It's alright.'

It wasn't. They both knew that. It was never going to be alright. But for now, that didn't matter.


End file.
